


The HMS 'Save My Rich, Pasty Ass Please, Wallace'

by Wynn



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: And violence, Gen, Logan is a cranky three-legged dog, Newly uploaded to AO3, Older Fic, Wallace and Logan interaction, Wallace is Florence Nightingale, and possibly friendship, some naughty language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post "Leave It to Beaver." Wallace happens upon Weevil and company beating the ever loving crap out of Logan Echolls on the Coronado Bridge. And stops to help. He's not sure why either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I fudged some geographical details of the San Diego/Neptune world to make this work.

The HMS 'Save My Rich, Pasty Ass Please, Wallace' or Wallace, the Magnificent

 

Oh, shit. That was about the extent of Wallace’s thoughts on the situation. Oh. Shit. It was short, not remotely sweet, yet it fit. Wallace had no idea how long the situation before him had been going on, so he was kind of iffy about the shortness of it all, but this, this was definitely anything but sweet.

Wallace parked in the middle of the bridge. There was no one behind him, no one in front of him, so he doubted his illegal parking would cause any rage inducing traffic jams. Besides, if traffic was going to be jammed, the sight of Neptune’s most leather loving gang beating the shit out of Aaron Echolls’ only baby boy would do the job just fine.

Wallace couldn’t see Echolls through the thick pack of leather and rage surrounding him. But he knew he was in there. Somewhere. If only because his busted up X-Terra gleamed like a big banana beacon in the night, directing the _HMS Save My Rich Pasty Ass Please, Wallace_ straight to the concrete shore. 

“Wallace?”

Wallace turned. His little brother stirred in the backseat, opened his eyes, and peered up at him through a haze of sleepy confusion. “We there yet?” 

Wallace shook his head. “Not yet. I just got to stop for a minute, pick up some coffee for Mom. You go back to sleep.”

He didn’t have to add that last part. Darrell had fallen back asleep sometime between ‘stop’ and ‘coffee.’ Hopefully he’d stay that way, too, while Wallace figured out what to do. As it was, he figured he had three options available to him. He could leave and not give this ‘oh, shit’ unpleasantness another thought, leave and call the cops to break this beat down up, or stay and do something completely stupid like saving Logan Echolls from the nonexistent mercy of Eli Navarro.

Wallace took a moment to ponder his options, took another moment to question his sanity, then sighed the sigh of people unduly burdened with quite possibly dead, most likely drunk rich boys and got out of the car. 

The night was dry and hot and tasted like blood. He expected the crowd to be going wild, blood lust eliciting various warrior cries from the gang bangers, but there was nothing, no sound, nothing but the faint gurgle of the Pacific, the shuffle-scrape of leather on asphalt, and one lone voice, Echolls’ voice, rising cracked and bleeding to the stars.

“Is that it? Is that all you got? God, you’re such a pussy, _Eli_. No wonder Lilly came running back to me.”

Wallace heard a wet smack and a dull crack. He peered through the outer ring of bikers and saw Logan face down on the ground. Weevil stood above him, his nose broken, one eye swollen, with blood trickling down his hand from a pair of split knuckles. But Weevil was all sunshine and daisies compared to Echolls, whose face looked like lumpy, moldy ground beef. Wallace forced himself not to upchuck his dinner of coffee and Ding-Dongs all over his new Adidas at that ugly sight. Puking his guts out would hardly be the auspicious start to this well meaning but ill advised rescue attempt that he’d prayed to God and Baby Jesus for in the car. 

Sighing at the mental mention of his car, Wallace glanced back at his trusty steel steed and contemplated making a run for it. Options A and B on his short list of Things to Do looked pretty damn sweet right about now, like sugar and spice and everything nice five hundred times over compared to Option C. But he figured he’d come too far to turn back now, even if too far had only been ten steps and some queasy rumblings from his intestinal tract. 

Turning back, Wallace drew in a deep breath, focused on the ground beneath his feet (and not on Echolls’ lumpy face), and eased his way into the silent yet savage crowd. He pierced the inner circle a few short moments later (too short in Wallace’s opinion) right next to Echolls’ feet. Right next to Weevil’s feet, too. A pair of angry, pacing, tightly wound feet attached to an angry, pacing, tightly wound Weevil who reminded Wallace of a big jungle cat about to pounce on an innocent, unsuspecting water buffalo and rip the slow, stupid fuck to shreds. 

Wallace the water buffalo. If he wasn’t about to piss his pants in fear that the big Weevil cat might turn his tightly wound anger on him, he might find the image funny. As it was, he did not. He found the image unfortunately- and terrifyingly- accurate.

“What the fuck you doing here, Fennell? This is a private party.”

“And a very fine party it is, too. Really fine. Super fine.” Weevil cocked one brow and Wallace hastily put the brakes on his runaway babbling. Cool, Wallace. Be cool. Be cooler than cool like André said. Ice Cold Fennell. If Veronica could pull off the calm and collected shit against Weevil, then Wallace could, too. 

Weevil took a step forward and the only thing that felt ice cold in Wallace was the big ball of subzero fear in the middle of his stomach.

Then again, maybe not.

“As you can see,” Weevil said, taking another step toward Wallace, “I’m kind of busy at the moment. So if you could spit out sooner rather than later why you’re here, I’d appreciate it.” 

Every instinct in Wallace’s body screamed at him through a Texas-sized bullhorn to get his black ass out of there. He wanted to go, really, _really_ wanted to go, but the two sets of hands clamping down on his shoulders and shoving him towards Weevil kind of killed that beautiful thought. He managed to stop himself from crashing headfirst into Weevil (thank god) and straightened fast. Okay. Okay. Time to break out the big guns. What would Veronica do? What would she do? Probably not have an interior monologue with herself as to what she should do, but then again she was Veronica and he was Wallace and Wallace had interior monologues with himself about what he should probably do. 

Weevil looked like he was rapidly losing patience (Wallace could tell by the cracking knuckles), so Wallace swallowed again and said, “I was just curious. Just wondered why you’re having this very fine party.” He tried his best to keep his tone, posture, and general ‘tude as nonchalant, devil may give a flying fuck as possible. “Not that I care if you beat the shit out of Echolls,” Wallace continued, shrugging one shoulder carelessly (he hoped.) “He ain't no friend of mine. I was just, you know, curious.”

“Curious?”

“Yeah. Curious.”

“You know, Wallace,” Weevil said, cracking another knuckle, “I think you been spending too much time with Veronica. Her tendency to stick her nose into business that don’t concern her seems to have rubbed off on you.”

Wallace shrugged again. “I guess so.”

“Yeah. You guess.” Weevil looked down, considered Echolls for a moment then reared back and kicked him hard in the ribs. Wallace tried not to wince at the cracking snap he heard at the boot meets boy connection. He failed. Weevil looked back up at him and said, “You want to know why I kicked the shit out of this rich boy? He killed Lilly Kane. That’s why.”

Wallace blinked. And blinked again. Not exactly the response he had been expecting. Not with every TV and radio station blaring the just breaking news of ‘Movie Star Murderer: Aaron Echolls killed Kane girl’ nonstop. He figured everyone in the world and outer space knew the scoop by now and old Mr. Echolls had only been in the clink for three hours. Apparently Weevil and his crew failed to constitute a part of the known universe. Just his luck.

Wallace scratched the tip of his nose and said, “Um… no, he didn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

Wallace didn’t know how Weevil could imbue such two innocuous words with the deathly swagger of an ‘I’m going to rip your fucking head off, you fucking motherfucker,’ but somehow, he did. Wallace was going to quiz Weevil someday as to how he accomplished such a miraculously scary feat, but for now, he said, “Echolls didn’t kill Lilly Kane. At least this one didn’t.”

“Yes, he did.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes. He did. Veronica said so.”

“Veronica was wrong. It happens from time to time.”

Weevil leaned in close to Wallace and gave new meaning to the phrase ‘personal space invasion.’ He said, “All right, Einstein. Enlighten us. Let’s say Veronica was wrong and you are right. Who do you think killed Lilly Kane?”

“Aaron Echolls.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me. Not about this.”

Wallace held up his hands. “I’m not lying. Lamb arrested him a couple hours ago. Turn on the radio if you don’t believe me. Every station’s talking about it.”

Weevil stared at Wallace. And stared. And stared some more. Wallace held his breath while Weevil stared, struggling not to make any sudden movements and startle the wild Weevil beast. Black dots danced a hearty jig in front of his eyes before Weevil finally stopped staring and spoke. “Check it.”

Wallace stepped back. “Okay.”

“Not you.”

Damn.

Eyes cutting over to one of his boys, Weevil pointed to the X-Terra and said, “Check it. Keys are in the ignition.”

Wallace heard a door open. The X-Terra started up and the late breaking news blasted out from the subwoofers. “ _-brought Aaron Echolls to Neptune General Hospital earlier this evening for treatment of undetermined wounds suffered during Mr. Echolls’ capture. Sources say Echolls is conscious and asking for his lawyer. Again, no charges as of yet have been filed against Aaron Echolls for the murder of Lilly Kane, but experts believe that Sheriff Don Lamb will do so shortly._ ”

The DJ continued spouting off details about Aaron Echolls’ capture, Veronica’s suspected involvement in it, and what this new development might mean for Abel Koontz, the now falsely convicted killer of Lilly Kane. The spouting finished a minute or so later and a commercial for pork, the other white meat, hit the airwaves. 

Weevil held up his hand and the radio switched off. The ensuing silence was thick and made Wallace twitch a bit on the inside. Would Weevil turn his considerable anger management issues onto him now for being the bearer of bad news? For breaking up this very fine party and denying Weevil the pleasure of turning Echolls’ nose inside out? 

Wallace watched Weevil turn around and step over to the edge of the bridge. He peered down at the dark water, rubbing occasionally at a blood smeared knuckle, and Wallace didn’t move. He didn’t move or think or breathe. He just continued doing his best Iceman impression for the world at large while he waited for God and Eli Navarro to decide his fate.

A few dozen heartbeats later, Weevil turned around and peered at Wallace through half-closed eyes. “So what happens now?”

“Now? Now you go.”

“Is that right?”

Wallace nodded. “I mean, you could stay. If you wanted to. But I’m sure someone other than me has seen your very fine party here and, unlike me, decided to inform the Sheriff about it. If you want to occupy the cell next to Aaron Echolls, then stay. If not, go. Your choice.”

Weevil pointed at Echolls. “What about him?”

“Leave him.”

“What about you?”

“Leave me, too.”

Weevil cracked a smile, but it lacked anything resembling humor or warmth. “Feel like playing nursemaid for this gringo punk?”

“Not particularly. But if I don’t Veronica will kick my ass until its blacker and blue just like I’m sure she’ll kick yours if you don’t leave right now and not come back.”

“She really cares that much for this piece of shit?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Wallace shrugged. “I don’t get it either.”

Another couple dozen heartbeats worth of staring passed as Weevil thought whatever Weevils tended to think. Then he pushed off the ledge and stepped over Echolls. But he didn’t stop to continue the beat down. He just strolled on by, hung a left around Wallace, and made his way over to his bike. Wallace stood statue still as Weevil climbed onto his bike, stood still as he fired it up and roared away. He stood still as the rest of the gang followed suit, some shooting parting glares Wallace’s way as they followed their erstwhile leader down the road, but none attempted to defy Weevil’s unspoken command and pick up where he left off. Wallace continued standing still until the last taillight faded into distance then he dropped his head down into his hands and sighed the sigh of someone grateful to be alive and in possession of all previously attached and very much loved body parts.

Then he looked up and said, “Girl better be ready to bake her ass off in snicker doodles for this.”

At the mention of snicker doodles, Echolls stirred. Or, more accurately, he groaned and shifted a bit on the ground. But it was enough to signify to Wallace that Echolls was not, in fact, dead and that it was time to decide what to do next. Wallace knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to retrieve Echolls’ keys from the X-Terra, stuff them into Echolls’ bloody little hands, and proceed on his merry way, releasing Echolls to the care of his own recognizance. Even if his own recognizance consisted of a few groans and a close encounter with the dirty ground. Wallace knew what he wanted to do, but he wasn’t sure if it was what he should do, wasn’t sure if it was what Veronica would do or would want to do or would want him to do. But before he could make a decision, fate stepped in and made it for him. 

Fate in the shape some flashing lights and a dented Crown Vic, of course.

The Neptune Sheriff’s Department cruiser slowed to a stop behind his mother’s car. Wallace took a step away from Echolls, careful not to look like he was fleeing the scene in case the officer in question happened to be a tad trigger happy, but just as careful to move far enough away from Echolls so that it didn’t look like he was responsible for the 10 rounds, winner by TKO on the ground. The officer in question cast a spotlight in Wallace’s direction and he squinted into the bright white light. A shadow lumbered into the space between Wallace and the light, a shadow in the shape of Deputy Leo. 

Leo made his way over to the scene, glanced down at Echolls, and grimaced. Wallace felt his pain. The boy was a sight for sore eyes only if one wanted to make their eyes cry out in pain and take a suicide leap from their sockets. Shaking his head slowly, Leo reached for his shoulder mike and requested an ambulance to the Coronado Bridge.

“…fuck… the ambulance…”

At this, both Wallace and Leo dropped their unwilling eyes down to Echolls, who rolled over onto his back and spit up a mouthful of blood. One of his eyes cracked open and swiveled around in his head for a bit before focusing on Wallace. Echolls coughed up some more blood as Wallace fought with his gag reflex for control of his vocal cords. 

“Um… what?” he said once victory had been achieved.

“…fuck… the ambulance…” Echolls repeated, much to Wallace’s dismay. He meant what he had said to Weevil; he did not under any circumstances want to play nursemaid for Echolls. And Echolls giving the big heave no to the men in white significantly decreased Wallace’s chances of avoiding that icky and not at all containing of the pimp juice fate.

Leo crouched down next to Echolls and said, “Sir, you need to go to the hospital. You probably have severe internal injuries that-”

“Fuck off, Crockett. I’m not going…” Echolls rolled back onto his stomach and eased up off the ground. His journey to an upright standing position resembled that of a just birthed horse: all wobbly legs and uncertain knees with something red and sticky dripping off his nose in a slow spiral down to the already red and sticky ground. After one excruciatingly long minute, Echolls finally achieved lift off and joined the bipedal land of _homo sapiens_. Wallace felt like collapsing in exhaustion just from looking at him. 

Leo looked over Wallace as Echolls rested his head on the hood of his car. “Is that who I think it is?”

“If what you’re thinking is that it’s been a shitty night for the Echolls clan, then you thought right.”

Leo dropped his voice down to a stage whisper and said, “Does he know what happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think he might have been unconscious for that part.” Wallace paused and considered Echolls. Echolls sucked in a wet, phlegmy breath and groaned out an equally wet, phlegmy exhale. Gross. “Should we tell him?”

“Not right now, I don’t think. We should probably try to get him to the hospital.”

“I’m not going… to the fucking… hospital. So stop… bitching about it.” Echolls pushed off of his car. He listed a bit to the side, doing a damn fine impression of an italicized question mark, but remained upright. “I’m going… home.”

Echolls shuffled around the front of his car. He plucked his keys out of the ignition, locked and shut the driver’s door, and then shuffled off across the bridge.

Toward Wallace’s car.

For a split second, Wallace believed, truly believed, he was witnessing some sort of visual hallucination, his worst nightmare come to life to torment him in the form of Logan Echolls. Because there was no way in hell this horror could actually be real. Because Wallace went to church. He prayed before every meal and ate three quarters of his vegetables, and God wouldn’t punish one of his devoted like this for a few measly uneaten lima beans. He wouldn’t. Wallace did his good deed. His risked life and limbs to save Echolls from Weevil and the universe wouldn’t fulfill that karmic debt by forcing Wallace to ferry Echolls home. It wouldn’t. It wouldn’t. 

It _wouldn’t_.

Either Echolls was ignoring the universe or God really was that spiteful for a few uneaten lima beans because Echolls continued his slow shuffle-step to the passenger seat unhindered.

Wallace sprang into action as Echolls reached for the door handle. “Excuse me? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Home. You’re taking me.”

“What, you forgot how to drive? You got your own car. That big ugly thing over there is yours, remember?”

“My car’s a stick. I can’t… work a stick right now. I can barely stand.”

“Then you should go to the hospital.” Echolls gave Wallace the death glare and opened his mouth. Wallace waved him off and said, “I know. I know. Fuck the hospital. But you can’t come with me. I got my brother in the car and I’ve got to get him home. Now. There’s a perfectly nice deputy here with a perfectly nice, not mine car that can haul your ass home.”

“I’ve had enough bonding time with Neptune’s finest today. I’ll pass.”

Leo took a step forward. “Don’t you want to file a report?”

Echolls shifted the death glare over to Leo. “No. I don’t. I want. To go-”

“Home. Yeah, we get it.” Wallace looked at Leo, his only remaining hope at preventing Wallace, Pimp Juice Extraordinaire from becoming Wallace, Nursemaid to the Rich and Bitchy. “Come on, man. Can’t you, just, arrest him for something? He’ll have to go with you if he’s in handcuffs.”

“Arrest him for what?”

“I don’t know. Resisting arrest. Disturbing the peace. Jaywalking. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Leo looked from Echolls to Wallace. Then he looked from Wallace to Echolls. Then he looked at Echolls again before settling a third and final time onto Wallace. His shoulders sagged a little and Wallace knew Leo was about to see the light and seize the lightweight into custody. But before he could do so, his shoulder mike crackled and a lot of important sounding gibberish Wallace didn’t understand spouted out. Leo’s mouth twitched as he listened to the gibberish, and in that faint twitch of the lips, Wallace knew that not only was Leo about to abandon him in his time of need, Leo was about to abandon him in his time of need _without_ taking Echolls with him.

The spouting stopped and Leo looked at Wallace. Wallace thought he detected a smidgen of guilt behind the immense relief in Leo’s eyes. “Wallace, man…”

“You’re sorry, but you have to go.” Leo nodded and Wallace sighed. He closed his eyes and waved a hand in Echolls’ direction. “What the hell am I supposed to do with him?”

Leo shrugged. “Take him home?”

Wallace executed his own version of the death glare. Leo offered a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug in return and then hurried off to his cruiser before Wallace could tell him exactly what he could do. Unable to bring himself to turn around and face his own personal albatross just yet, Wallace watched Leo make a swift three point turn and take off down the bridge, lights flashing and siren wailing. Half a minute later the lights had disappeared and the siren had faded and still Wallace could not turn around. It’s not that he hated helping people. He didn’t. He liked helping people. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t keep helping Veronica in her efforts to aid and abet others. It was just… It was _Echolls_. The dude seriously rubbed Wallace the wrong way and he wanted to keep all Echolls-Fennel bonding time to a minimum.

But not tonight, apparently, since God and Deputy Leo were cruel, cruel men and didn’t provide Wallace with the escape route he so desperately craved. So steeling himself for the inevitable bitchy, bloody snark, Wallace turned around and found… nothing.

Echolls was gone.

Shit.

No. 

Not shit. Shit _yes_. Echolls was gone. Gone. He was no longer Wallace’s concern. Wallace could continue on his merry way, content in the fact that he had done his good deed for the day, and not have to suffer bitchy rich boys who seriously rubbed him the wrong way.

Yes.

Yes.

Only…

Only, where did he go? His stupid Big Bird car was still there, looking like a fat Twinkie on wheels. Nobody else but Wallace was on the bridge, and there was no way in hell Echolls could have disappeared from view in the few seconds- okay, minutes- that Wallace had his back turned. Not when a geriatric snail outpaced him. Echolls wasn’t in Wallace’s car; he wasn’t in his own car; he wasn’t anywhere. He was gone. He was…

“Oh, _shit_.”

He’d jumped. Echolls had jumped. He’d jumped off the fucking bridge. 

Wallace tore off for the ledge, hoping he was wrong, praying he was wrong, because even though he didn’t like Echolls very much and wished he would never, ever come within ten feet of Veronica again, he didn’t want the guy to die. He intervened in the beat down for a reason (besides sheer stupidity, that is, but Wallace explained that away as excessive morality.) Sure, the guy had had a shitty day. His (come on Wallace, you can say it) girlfriend had turned him into the police for suspicion of murder; he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life by the local biker gang; he might possibly know that his cheating, lying, scumbag of a father not only slept with his ex-girlfriend but videotaped the affair and then brutally murdered her in her own backyard. And, yeah, so what if his mother had killed herself in the exact same spot just a few months earlier, abandoning her only son to the care of said cheating, lying, scumbag of a father? So what if he had ostracized himself from most if not all of his friends to be with said girlfriend who had turned him into the police earlier in the day for suspicion of murder?

No reasons to kill yourself. Reasons for bitchy, bloody snark, yes. But suicide? No. Not on Wallace’s watch.

Wallace hit the guard rail and peered down over the ledge. He couldn’t see anything. It was too dark and the water was too far down and he didn’t hear any splashing and he tripped over something tall, dark, and sticky and landed face first on the ground.

Fuuuuuck.

“Jesus Christ, I thought you were supposed to be _helping_ me.” 

From his position face down on the ground, Wallace heard Echolls groan and then hiss in pain. He rolled over and found Echolls sprawled next to the passenger door, still hissing in pain with one hand clutching his ribs. Even in the dark, face down on the ground, Wallace saw the death glare. He saw and he returned it ten fold, adding in an extra helping of frustrated and supremely annoyed eye rolling on the side. Then he flopped back down to the ground. His heart thumped entirely too fast in his chest, but whether it was from rage or relief Wallace didn’t know.

“You kicked me. You fucking kicked me.” 

He decided to go with the former.

“I didn’t see you. What the _fuck_ are you doing down here on the ground?”

“You took too long. I got tired of standing.”

A moment of (stunned) silence and then Wallace burst out laughing. He tried not to. He didn’t want to give Echolls the wrong idea that they were friends or something. But he couldn’t help it. The guy was undeniably, absolutely, completely, one hundred percent bat-shit insane, this whole night had been undeniably, absolutely, completely, one hundred percent bat-shit insane, and Wallace’s only defense in the face of such insanity was to laugh. Which in and of itself might be considered a symptom of complete and undeniable insanity, but Wallace preferred to go with the old ‘best medicine’ interpretation of events whenever possible.

Laughter trailing off into a sigh, Wallace said, “You’re not right, you know that?”

“Me? You’re the one rolling around on the ground like some retarded hyena.”

“Hyena? Retarded? Now I’m definitely going to kick you.”

“Get in line.”

Wallace rolled his eyes and stood, holding out a hand to Echolls. Echolls ignored the hand (of course), choosing instead to struggle against the combined forces of gravity and internal injuries to stand up. Wallace gave him some props for the whole independent, I-can-do-it-myself-back-the-fuck-up vibe, but that vibe failed to mesh with his vibe of getting this show on the road right the fuck now, so he grabbed Echolls by the elbow and hauled him up anyway.

“Now,” Wallace said once he had determined that Echolls was not, in fact, going to keel back over dead, “there are some rules we need to establish before hopping on into the Wallacemobile.”

“Good God, please don’t tell me that you named your car.”

“Good God, please don’t tell me that was some smack coming out of your mouth. Because if it was, I _will_ leave your ass here and let you walk home.”

Echolls sighed. And possibly rolled his eyes. Wallace couldn’t tell with all the swelling. “Continue with the rules. Please. I’m all a-quiver in anticipation.”

“You better be. Because if you break any of these rules, you’ll be wishing that Weevil continued with his Apollo Creed imitation tonight.”

“Because _you’ll_ kick my ass if I break any of your sanctified rules?”

“No. Because my mom will. She’ll do you and me both, and that’s a fate no man should have to suffer. So pay attention. One.” Wallace held up one finger and shook it in front of Echolls’ face to get his attention. “Don’t bleed on the car. That includes the seat, seatbelt, dashboard, floorboard, and all points in between. Two, don’t wake up my little brother. Three, if he happens to wake up, don’t talk to him. Let me do the talking. Four-”

“I changed my mind. Riding in cars with Crocketts sounds like heaven right about now.”

“ _Four_ , don’t touch the radio. Don’t turn it on. If I turn it on, don’t change the station. And don’t mess with the volume. Five-”

“Keep all hands and feet inside the car at all times and do not stand up at any time during the ride. Christ, Wallace, this isn’t the _Tower of Terror_. It’s a car ride. A very short, very boring car ride.”

“It better be.” Wallace stared at Echolls a moment longer to help impart the gravity of the rules laid out before them then he fished his keys out of his pocket to unlock the door. He ushered Echolls inside the car then hurried over to the other side. Once in, he checked on the little man in the back (still asleep), the bitchy man in the front (still alive), and got this show on the road.

Finally.  
………..


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amazing adventure of Wallace and Logan continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The news about the VM movie and my recent re-watch have awakened my fandom love, so now I'm posting my old VM fic to AO3. :D

“Shouldn’t you stay awake or something?”

“No.”

“What if you have a concussion? You could pass out and die.”

“I’m not going to pass out and die. I might die if I don’t pass out soon though.”

“That’s not funny.”

Echolls put one hand over his heart. “Wallace. I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t. Except for the hassle it would cause me having to explain to everyone how I ended up with your dead, broken body in my car. So just stay awake, all right?”

“Fine. I was just doing my part to preserve rule number two.”

Wallace glanced at his brother in the rear view mirror. Still sound asleep, head half on and off the back seat. “We’re fine like this. Just don’t go shrieking your head off in pain.”

“How about a low moan? A wheezing groan?”

Wallace rolled his eyes. “Anybody ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“You’re the one that requested the chatter. I’ll be more than happy to pass out now if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I didn’t request the chatter. I just requested that you not pass out and die.”

“There’s a difference?”

Wallace didn’t answer. He rubbed one hand across his forehead and upped the amount of snicker doodles Veronica would have to bake in reparation for this. As of now, the total clocked in at two hundred and fifty three. There was no telling how high that number might climb in the five minutes remaining until they reached casa de los Echolls. Easily into the thousands if _someone_ kept yapping.

“Look, just sit there and be quiet,” Wallace said, returning his hand to the steering wheel. “ _With_ your eyes open, okay? Okay?”

Wallace got no response. At least not a verbal one. He glanced at Echolls to make sure he wasn’t flipping him off or doing anything else that would require a hearty smack to the back of the head, but Echolls wasn’t doing anything. He sat slumped over in his seat with his head resting against the window. In the glow of the streetlights, Wallace could see lines of tension around his closed mouth and eyes, in the white knuckled clench of his hands, in the staggered inhale, exhale of his breaths. A faint inkling of pity and guilt wormed its way through Wallace’s brain as he looked. He shouldn’t have gotten so snippy with Echolls. It was petty and stupid, like poking a cranky, three-legged dog with a stick, and Wallace was raised better than to be a petty, stupid, three-legged dog poker.

Turning onto Echolls’ street, Wallace stopped the car. A gaggle of photographers and news vans crowded around the front (and to Wallace’s knowledge the only) gate to the Echolls mansion. Waiting, no doubt, to ambush someone, anyone, coming in or out of the place for an exclusive sound bite on tonight’s just shocking turn of events. And the son of the movie star murderer arriving home beaten and bloody would surely make for an exciting exclusive.

It would, but not tonight.

Wallace turned the car around and headed back down the 09er hill. He plotted a course for la casa de Fennel, keeping a sharp eye out for any photogs that might possibly give chase.   
…………

Two-seventeen in the morning and all Wallace wanted to do was crash. He shifted his mom’s car into park and turned off the engine, relishing in the resulting quiet. Living with a hyperactive eight year old didn’t allow for many quiet moments in the Fennel household, but Wallace didn’t mind. Most of the time. Now, though, now he was grateful for the quiet because it gave him time to think.

But before he could think, he had to do. Unbuckling his seat belt, he got out of the car, popped open the back door, and gathered his brother into his arms. He didn’t bother shutting the door; this neighborhood was safe enough. Besides, he didn’t want to wake Echolls before he had a chance to decide how to answer the sure to be difficult questions about Lilly, Veronica, and Daddy Dearest.

Wallace carried his brother into the house. It was just as everyone had left it five hours before: TV on and broadcasting something other than _Spiderman 2_ ; half-eaten bowl of Doritos on the floor next to Wallace’s sure to be flat Coke. Bills strewn across the dining room table from where his mom had been paying them, and dirty dishes still soaking in the sink. Life interrupted.

Making his way to his brother’s room, Wallace remembered at the last second to step over the basketball guarding the entrance. He wound around the random stacks of comic books on the floor and laid Darrell down on his bed. Off came the Nike slides, up came the blanket, and then Wallace crept back out of the room. He left the door open a crack, just the way Darrell like it, and prayed that the other sleeping not-quite-beauty in the car would be something resembling quiet once inside.

Winding his way back through the house, Wallace stepped outside. Echolls stood by the trunk of the car, looking around the neighborhood like he’d just landed in the middle of Oz and expected a two foot tall Munchkin to come barreling out at him from behind his mother’s hydrangea bush. 

“When I told you I wanted to go home,” Echolls said as he shuffled up the driveway, “I didn’t mean yours.”

“I know. But there was a slight hitch in the other proceedings.”

“What? You got lost?”

“No. I didn’t get lost. I-” Wallace paused. Blurting out the real reason for the turn around in the middle of his front yard probably wasn’t the best of ideas. The neighborhood might have been safe enough, but it was also nosy as hell and the whole reason for the turn around had been to keep things on the down low. “You should probably get inside,” Wallace said instead. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

Echolls shrugged and shuffled the rest of the way inside. Wallace left him to his own devices as he ran down to the car and shut the doors. Racing back inside, he found Echolls standing in the middle of the living room, not touching anything, still looking for that wayward Munchkin. Wallace sympathized. He felt as out of place as Echolls looked, and he was standing in his own house.

Pointing to one of the dining room chairs, he said, “You can sit over there while I, um, go get the first aid box.”

“Don’t bother. Just tell me where the bathroom is.”

“Down the hall, second door on the right.” Wallace followed Echolls down the hall. He reached past him and flipped on the bathroom light as he said, “Hydrogen peroxide and band aids are under the sink. Um…” He opened the linen closet and grabbed a few of the old washcloths from the bottom of the pile. Tossing them onto the counter, he stepped back and said, “Better use those. For the blood. Mom’s kind of particular about the good towels.”

Echolls stared down at the washcloths. He picked one up and held it in his hands. Then he said, “So was mine.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. They had reached the uncomfortable silence portion of the evening much earlier than Wallace had expected. He was unprepared to deal. “I, um, if you can’t find something you need, just let me know. I’ll, uh, be out here.” And he shut the door. The faint inkling of pity and guilt in Wallace’s mind blossomed into a vague notion. He tried his best to squash it by thinking of all the shitty things Echolls had done to Veronica over the past year, but his squashing was squashed by thoughts of the really shitty day Echolls had just had and how it was going to get even worse in about five minutes when Wallace told him about his dad.

So. Wallace felt pity for Echolls. Even some alternate universe version of empathy at their sort of similar feelings of parental loss.

Hell had just frozen over, and Wallace found himself up the creek without his skates.

Unnerved, he crossed the hall and entered his bedroom. The universe might be undergoing a seismic shift out in the hall, but in Wallace’s room things were thankfully still very much the same. Picture of the All Mighty Jordan next to his bed; Veronica’s spirit boxes on his dresser. Wallace eyed his bed and debated whether or not to flop face first onto the unmade cotton goodness. Eyed, debated, and ultimately couldn’t resist the 300 thread count allure. So he fell, flopped, and found himself shooting back up at the harsh yelp of pain that echoed out from the bathroom.

“Ech- Um. Logan, man, you okay?”

No answer. Wallace tried the door knob; it was locked. He knocked and heard from within: “Eyes…”

“What?”

Louder: “Ice. Can you get me… some ice?”

Oh. “Yeah. Sure. Hang on a sec.”

Wallace went to the kitchen and grabbed some ice from the freezer. He wrapped it up in a paper towel then headed back to the bathroom. The door was now open a crack; Wallace thrust his hand through the opening and waved the towel-clad ice around like a wet, dripping pom-pom.

“The door’s open for a reason…”

Clenching his teeth at the not-quite-order, Wallace entered the bathroom. Echolls sat on the edge of the tub, gingerly grasping the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Wallace dropped the ice into his outstretched hand and turned to go.

“Wait. Why are you here?”

Well. That answered his question of potential brain damage. Putting a big fat check mark in the crazy column, Wallace turned around and said slowly, “I live here. This is my house.”

Echolls glared at him. “I know. I meant, why are you here?” He waved the hand not holding the ice around in some gesture that he apparently thought meant something to Wallace. Other than it was another big fat check mark in the ‘Logan is Crazy’ column.

“You asked for some ice, so I got you some ice. Then-”

“We’re not friends. You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t ask for your help. And no doubt Veronica’s told you by now her _grand_ theory on how I killed Lilly. So why are you here? Helping me?”

Oh again. It was the question of the hour (literally.) Wallace could’ve said he was doing it as a favor for Veronica. He saw the look on her face at the hospital as she tried and failed once again to get a hold of Echolls. She was worried about him; she cared about him, much to Wallace’s everlasting chagrin. But that wasn’t it, not entirely, and Wallace knew it. Knew it and said it to himself earlier in the evening in one of his rambling interior monologues. So he shrugged one shoulder and said, “You needed help. And I know you didn’t kill Lilly Kane.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Veronica knows, too.”

“Does she?”

Wallace nodded.

“You know, that’s not what she knew this morning. When she turned me into the cops.”

“A lot’s happened since this morning.”

Echolls laughed, but like Weevil’s, it lacked humor or warmth. Unlike Weevil’s, however, which cut like a knife and sounded just as sharp to Wallace’s ears, this was rough like asphalt and covered with a fine coating of crazy. “You’re not wrong there,” Echolls said. He slid down into the tub and collapsed back against the sides. Propping his head against the wall, he propped the icy towel against his face and said, “In the spirit of curiosity, what happened today to change her mind? Did she suddenly wake up from her afternoon nap and realize she’s not the only person on the planet who loved Lilly? Or did she pop the blue pill and take the edge off her raging paranoia?”

“She caught the killer.”

Echolls shot up. His eyes were open, alert, and focused on Wallace like twin blood-tinged laser beams. “Who? Who was it?” Before Wallace could even begin to think how to answer that question, Echolls said, “Was it… Was it Duncan?”

Wallace shook his head. “No. It wasn’t Duncan. It…” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say it. No matter what Veronica vaguely alluded to about Echolls’ relationship with his dad, it was still his _dad_.

“Come on, Wallace. Who was it?”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“I _am_ sitting down.”

“Oh. Um…” Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, “Your dad,” shit.

Echolls stared at him like he’d answered in Klingon. “My… what?”

Wallace breathed in, licked his lips, and breathed out. “Logan, man, your dad killed Lilly Kane.”

A drop of water fell from the faucet. It sounded like a raging waterfall in the absolute quiet that followed Wallace’s declaration. He finally got the whole time stopping thing. In that moment, time fucking stopped and a drop raged like a waterfall. Wallace peered down at Logan. His vague notion grew into a cloudy thought as Logan sat there in shock, struggling to comprehend what was just said.

Then he was nothing but movement, flailing his way out of the tub. “What, she ran out of other suspects? First Jake and Celeste. Then Duncan, Weevil, me. I guess my dad deserved his spin on Ronnie’s Wheel of Larcenous Fun, too. Better watch out, Wallace. She might finger you next if you piss her off enough.”

“Logan, I’m serious. She found some tapes that incriminated your dad in the murder. He found out she knew and tried to…”

“Tried to what?”

“Tried to kill her to get them back. He locked her in a freezer. Set it on fire.”

Logan didn’t move. He had his back to Wallace. He lifted one hand, placed it on the wall. Wallace didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing. He stood there and tried not to watch Logan, but his eyes kept drifting back from the sink and the door and the rug to the hard lines of Logan’s back, the faint tremor of his hands. 

Another drop, another waterfall, another seismic shift to the cosmos.

“Is she… is she okay?”

Wallace nodded. Then realized Logan couldn’t see him nodding with his back turned and said, “Yeah. She’s got some cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious though. The doctors sent her home from the hospital a few hours ago. Or, she left and they didn’t try to stop her. You know how she is.”

“Yeah… I know.”

More silence. Just as uncomfortable as the first, but still Wallace didn’t move. He didn’t know what to do, but he thought at least his nothing was something. Staying was something.

But not for Logan, apparently, who climbed out of the tub and walked out of the bathroom. Without a word or a glance or even a glower of acknowledgement sent Wallace’s way. 

Wallace tore off after him, found him fumbling with the lock on the front door. “What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving. I have to see her.”

“Who?”

“Veronica. I need to know she’s okay.”

“I just told you she is.”

Logan stopped his fumbling and looked straight at Wallace for the first time… ever. “I have to see for myself.”

A three second showdown occurred. Three seconds in which Wallace had a thought, which turned into a plan, which turned into a plot. Weevil had been right when he said Wallace spent entirely too much time with Veronica; a plan like this would never have occurred to him pre-BFF-ness. He knocked a few cookies off the snicker doodle pile, heaved the biggest sigh he could, and said, “All right. All right. Fine. Let me just get my brother, and we’ll go.”

Logan cocked an eyebrow; his skepticism of Wallace’s easy acquiescence was plain as the broken nose on his face. “We’ll go?”

Wallace smiled. “Yeah. We’ll go.”  
…………

“I hate you.”

Wallace shrugged. “Fine by me, but you’re still going.” Logan didn’t move. He stayed right where he was, slouched and scowling in the passenger seat, resolutely not looking at Neptune Memorial Hospital. 

“You said you’d take me to Veronica’s.”

“No, I didn’t. I said we’d go.”

“To Veronica’s. It was implied.”

Wallace started to roll his eyes but stopped after remembering his metaphorical vow not to poke cranky three-legged dogs. “Did you really think I was going to take you to Veronica’s? She needs some peace and quiet after the crappy night she’s had, and a visit from the _Logan Horror Picture Show_ would kill that quiet. And if I _had_ taken you to Veronica’s, she would have brought you here anyways. So you would have ended up here wherever you had gone. I just saved you an embarrassing side trip.” Logan stayed silent and pouting, and Wallace let himself roll his eyes. God save him from the rich and bitchy. “Look, Veronica’s okay. You’re not. So get your ass into that hospital before I kick it in there.”

Logan still didn’t move. He glanced at the hospital from the corners of his eyes. His hands clenched into fists and he said, “What’s the point?”

“Of what? Hospitals?”

“Of everything. Going to the hospital. Getting better. Living. What’s the point, Wallace? If there is one.”

Wallace blinked. “You want me to tell you the point of living?”

“Yes.”

Okay. At least he was honest about wanting to know the meaning of life. Not that honesty made the end all, be all of existential questions easier to answer, but Wallace appreciated the spoon blunt honesty all the same. 

“Well,” he said slowly, feeling his way around the answer word by word, syllable by syllable, letter by letter, “it’s sort of different for everyone. I mean, it has to be, right? People don’t want the same things out of life, so the point of living has got to be different for everyone. Me, for instance, the point is to graduate high school, go to UCLA on a full ride basketball scholarship, win the NCAA title four times in a row before being recruited by the Lakers, Spurs, or Magic and land a hella fat endorsement deal so I can buy my mom the house she’s always wanted. You, though? I don’t know you, so I don’t know what you want out of life. But I know what you want out of tomorrow. You want to see Veronica and make sure she’s okay. And you can’t do that unless you go see a doctor and make sure you’ll still be alive tomorrow to see Veronica. So that’s your point. At least for the next twenty-four hours. After that… you got to figure that out for yourself like everybody else.”

Silence followed his (quite eloquent in his opinion) answer. First a moment’s worth. Then a minute’s. Wallace leaned forward to check if Logan had passed out again. He hadn’t. He just sat there in silence, which almost unnerved Wallace more than his quasi-suicidal talk from before. 

Then he said, “I don’t like hospitals.”

“Nobody likes hospitals. Get over it.” Logan glared at him, and Wallace held up his hands. “Hey, I say it with all the love in my heart that I can muster at three o’clock in the morning.”

“You’re a regular Florence Nightingale.”

Wallace winced. Despite all his efforts not to succumb to that particular fate, it seemed over the course of the evening he had, in fact, turned into Wallace, Nursemaid to the Rich and Bitchy. “I’m not your Florence anything,” he said, slouching down in his seat and folding his arms across his chest. Cookie count: Four hundred sixty-seven and climbing fast. “Now are you going to get your ass into that hospital or not? ‘Cause my brother can’t sleep in the car the entire night.”

Logan shot Wallace the death glare again, and for a second Wallace thought, truly thought, that Logan’s monumental case of stubbornness (second only to Veronica’s in breadth and depth) would win out over whatever brains he had left in his lumpy head. But then he sighed and said, “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Great.” Wallace reached for the door handle.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“With you.” Logan looked confused; Wallace sent him a look that could only be described as ‘duh’ in most circles. “Did you think I was going to let you go in there all by yourself?”

“Um, yes.”

“Um, no. That’s not how things work in my family. We don’t just chuck people out and then run away.” 

“I didn’t think you’d run. I figured you’d drive.” Wallace opened his mouth, but Logan continued before he could speak. “Sorry. Unrepentant sarcasm is how things work in my family. The only thing, really.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re not your family. So you don’t have to work like them.”

“How do you know? You don’t know me; you said it yourself. I could be exactly like my family.”

Wallace nodded. “You’re right. You could be.” He opened the door and got out of the car. Leaning back in, he said, “But would anyone else in your family have been worried about the girl who had one family member tossed in prison just hours after trying to get _another_ thrown in, too?” Logan stayed silent and Wallace smiled. “I didn’t think so. Now get up, get out, and get a move on. Or do you need me to go get you a wheelchair?”

At that, life sparked back into Logan’s eyes. Nothing better to get a guy going than a challenge to his manhood. He got of the car as Wallace retrieved his brother from the back seat, and they made their way into the hospital.

Finally.

(thank god.)  
…………

the end


End file.
